The Inescapable Mistake of Caring
by Gwen's Blue Box
Summary: Mycroft Holmes, logical, rational, is by supposed to be used to his little brother's frequent near-death experiences, such as being shot in the chest. But of course Mycroft has never succeeded in detaching himself from his love for his little brother, and so he finds himself in a state of highly unusual apprehension, fearing for his brother's very life./Takes place during HLV.
1. A Brother's Heart

_Hello again!_

_This is the long overdue written result of a PM by paula. who was asking for Mycroft in "His Last Vow" after Sherlock's break-in in Magnussen's office. (I am sorry for the eternity it took me in the end, and I hope you like it). This story is set after "The Folly of Two Men" and fits with it, but it's absolutely not necessary to have read the other one first. It did grow rather long, but bear with me. 3 parts in total.  
_

_Oh, and to avoid unnecessary confusion: Andrea is supposedly Anthea's real name, so I decided to simply go with it._

_Naturally, I don't own characters etc., just toying around._

_Enjoy._

* * *

**The Inescapable Mistake of Caring**

1

A Brother's Heart

-I-

It was, according to Mycroft Holmes's firmest beliefs, a capital mistake to theorise without a sufficient amount of data. Countless times he had reminded his little brother of this fact, and yet it was exactly what he himself had succumbed to doing this very night.

Naturally, once more because of his brother; naturally, his brother caused his fingers to tap, in an unusual display of nervousness, onto his thigh, caused his so perfectly ordered thoughts to spiral out of control for the time being.

This time, however, the characteristic anger that usually accompanied Mycroft's exasperation whenever his brother had got himself into one or the other predicament once more was missing, had been dispelled by the cold, hard ball of pure anxiety in the pit of his stomach, a lump that threatened to make his limbs quiver and his voice and composure waver.

His fear for his brother's life left, for once, no room for any other manifests of sentiment.

There was a chance of estimatedly 57 percent, he had calculated with what little data he had while for the second time reminding his chauffeur to ignore unnecessary traffic rules, that his brother was about to die.

Had he been himself, in full and absolute control of the great powers of his brain, of his mind, had he succeeded in allowing reason to prevail instead of emotion and instinct, he would have dismissed his calculation immediately, would have abandoned it instantaneously for its being faulty, doomed to prove wrong for the sheer lack of hard facts that would have granted him to reasonably predict the outcome of this night.

As it was, in the dark of the night and on his way to possibly his brother's deathbed, Mycroft Holmes had nothing else to cling to but a chance of 43 percent - a chance being seriously jeopardised by a bullet wound to the chest, high probability of internal bleeding, the possbility of the bullet having pierced his brother's heart - that his so stubborn, foolish little brother would not surrender to such a commonplace approach of death.

He did not, despite his awareness that balance of probability was against his brother, hesitate to accept the third call from his personal assistant in that night within a matter of seconds after his phone had rung.

"Yes," he greeted her, his voice, to his relief, still steady, not yet betraying any of the fear that had infested his brain and heart and continued to refuse to be ejected. Relief that would, most likely, be shattered any moment now, because Andrea intended to inform him that Sherlock had died, for real, this time. And it would, as Mycroft was perfectly aware of as well, be a direct result of his failure to stop his brother from going after Charles Augustus Magnussen.

"He's out of surgery," Andrea said, "and apparently in recovery. Still unconscious."

Reason returned to him, reason and logic, not with violent force, but gradually, as his heart, his so human heart that nonetheless managed to seize control control over his superior brain some of the times his brother was concerned, pounding heavily, rapidly, without any physical reason, slowly captured the words that had reached his ears and permitted his ever-alert mind to take control.

For a split-second, Mycroft felt inexplicably faint.

"Is that confirmed?" he heard himself asking, asking calmly as realisation settled in that, naturally, his conclusion _had _been faulty, that it would, of course, be typical for Sherlock, a perfect display of his stubbornness - and if it was, Mycroft had never been more grateful for his little brother's obstinacy, his unwillingness to give in.

The blood kept rushing through his ears, in tact with his still too fast pounding heart and his whirring brain that only barely managed to stop itself from spiralling into uncontrolled theorising yet again, not so easily convinced by Andrea's words, and Mycroft found himself clutching his phone with unsteady fingers.

Sentiment, yes. Unpleasant and distracting, but inevitable and inescapable as soon as it came to his younger brother.

"Yes," Andrea verified.

"His condition?" he demanded, and forced himself to talk slowly and clearly, without stumbling over any words in his insuppressible worrying. Alive, yes, apparently, living through surgery which should, normally, increase his brother's chances close to tremendously. Massive blood loss to be compensated for, possible organ damage. Complications, of course, as well as… And there it was again, loss of control, control over his most precious ability because the human being of the utmost importance to him was in for him uncontrollable danger.

"Critical," Andrea informed him.

Of course, to be expected. "John Watson?" he wanted to know and allowed himself to dwell neither on the fact that, naturally, critical did per definition not mean stable, nor on his highly unusual level of apprehension.

"With your brother, sir," his PA replied calmly.

Mycroft nodded, a vain gesture in the dark back of a car in the night. To be expected, too. "The shooter?"

This time, Andrea hesitated. "Still nothing, sir," she admitted finally. "We're working on it."

Hopefully so. Nothing yet. Mycroft's brain took over again, fuelled by his wish to lay his hands on whoever had dared harm Sherlock, by the urge that he had never wanted, and yet had never been able to escape, by the obligatory wish of any elder brother. A professional then, leaving no traces - suggesting careful planning, intelligence. Criminal intent, unclear yet whether directed at Magnussen or at his brother. Magnussen, the more likely target. Worrying about his little brother, as he had discovered countless times before, increased his normally non-existent tendency to form theories without data immensely, and yet it had never before been as pronounced as in this night.

"Sir?" Andrea said. "Do you need me to summon your car?"

"No," he told her curtly. "I have taken care of that already." He had, had phoned his chauffeur after hours of sitting in his office, the picture of his little brother, dying with a bullet hole in his chest, in his so fragile heart, occupying his mind, after hours of smoking. "Concentrate on the shooter."

He didn't need to hear Andrea's reply to know that she would make sure, as she always did, the loyal, trustworthy PA.

Out of surgery. Critical. John Watson.

Brother dear, he couldn't help but think as he pocketed his mobile phone, once more noticing the agitated tapping of the fingers of his right hand on his thigh.

"Sir?" his chauffeur addressed him. "Are we in a hurry, sir?"

No, would have been the rational, the logical answer. Sherlock was in hospital, receiving the best care available, surrounded by medical personnel perfectly qualified as well as by Doctor Watson, a force of stability for his brother and another medical professional. There was absolutely no reason for Mycroft, now that he had been updated on the exact nature of his brother's condition, to rush anything, to make his appearance at hospital at all, offering a pitiful display of a worrying older brother, fuelled by anxiety and sentiment.

The reply that came out of his mouth, however, should have been expected, for it was the usual whenever Sherlock was involved, and once more, Mycroft conceded: "Yes."

-I-

Due to his brother's particular notion to risk his life so recklessly, over and over again, Mycroft Holmes had far too much experience with hospital interiors and Accident & Emergency departments in particular. It had taken him little more than two minutes to locate a nurse proficient enough to convey to him the information he needed, including the names of his brother's surgeons as well as where to find them, and Sherlock's current whereabouts.

Simply a quick look, he told himself for the third time now as he was walking down the corridor the nurse had pointed out, his steps slow, carefully measured. One quick look to disprove his precipitate theories and make sure that everything was indeed, as Andrea had claimed, in order, and then he could talk to the doctors responsible for his brother, then he could resume working again.

_Then_, because right now, he wanted nothing more than to see his breathing, living little brother, and for once he failed to resist the power sentiment occasionally developed over his usually predominant mind.

The nurses, people, hurrying through the corridor at quarter to three in the night, didn't even glance at him, didn't try to stop him. Of course not.

The handle of his umbrella was trapped tightly in his grip as he stepped up to the room in question, towards the glass wall facing the corridor.

One quick look, that was all he admitted to wanting. A surrender to one more sample for the enormous amount of proof that he was as prone to sentiment as any other human being, as ordinary people, that he could not possibly fight off the desire to reassure himself, with a quick glance at his little brother, that Andrea's information was correct and that Sherlock was not yet dead. The knowledge on its own, a mere statement, a mere claim, did not at all suffice to dim the worry still blazing in his mind, despite the gradual return of his customary contaiment; he needed, apparently, to calm his heart and mind and steady his hands, visual proof, a physical confirmation, as stupid and unnecessary as it was.

The sight that presented itself to him through the slits of the drawn blinds, however, was nowhere near as reassuring as Mycroft had expected it to be.

John Watson's back, still clad into a dark jacket, appeared as the most prominent feature, especially since Mycroft did his best not to keep staring at the no doubt direful hospital bed and its inhabitant, wearing the pale face of Mycroft's little brother, but having close to nothing in common with Sherlock apart from that.

Stillness, defencelessness, frailty had never been attributes applying to Sherlock, and even if they did, on rare and yet too plentiful occasions, including one night and a heroin overdose Mycroft still preferred not to think about, they had never been so emphasised as in this moment.

Sentiment, yes, the rational part of Mycroft, resurfacing slowly, scolded him as his fingers tensed around the cool, smooth surface of his umbrella in his hand.

Sentiment.

A notion, it seemed, Doctor Watson was particularly susceptible to tonight - his right hand, normally, Mycroft assumed, in the clutches of his newly-wed wife, was currently very firmly wrapped around Sherlock's, providing comfort and constancy, however futile and unnoticed in his brother's contemporary insentient condition.

One quick look, Mycroft reminded himself as his gaze wandered towards his brother's face, slack in sedation, without the air of petulant exasperation that so loyally accompanied Sherlock in his waking life.

One quick look.

The image of a young boy, looking up to Mycroft in adoration. A memory of the same boy, tear stains on his cheeks. The boy, older now, shouting at Mycroft because of the death of his beloved pet. The boy, a man for many years now, with a bullet in his chest.

Quick. A _quick _look.

His brother, however critical his condition might be, was in the utmost capable hands and in the company of the one he would most likely wish to see upon awakening, Mycroft had to remind himself. He, in contrast, had other work to do.

Visual proof, he pondered as he finally took a step backwards and gave up his hovering position in front of the blinds to his brother's hospital room, and the cold truth that his brother was cared for and tended to did nothing to calm his traitorous and human heart. Visual proof, as he should have learnt after thirty-seven years, never really succeeded in stifling his persistent fear that, after a night like this, he might not have a little brother any longer.

Mycroft shook his head briefly.

Time to go back to work.

-I-

Supervising undercover agents, coordinating the secret service and occasionally securing the safety of the country was, Mycroft determined not for the first time as he stood in front of the hospital, another cigarette - the likelihood of contracting lung cancer was abominably low, and even if it hadn't been, Mycroft would not have cared - in his left hand, his mobile phone in his right, much more pleasing than the work he had to take care of in this night, thanks, of course, to his little brother and his repeated display of stupidity when it came to his own health and life.

His PA answered after the first ring.

"Anything on the shooter?" he demanded immediately, his cigarette fuming between his fingers. Of course it gave away so much about his state of incessant worrying - this was not only his fourth phone conversation with Andrea in this night, but _he _had also been the one to call her, desperate for more information, for information he could deal with professionally, instead of having his mind moving around in endless circles because of the irritating lack of data to work with.

His very long, very tenacious exchange with one of his brother's surgeons - wealthy family, obviously, father lawyer, middle child, so neither Oxford nor Cambridge for him, nervous habit of flapping his hands when being talked to, still relatively young - approximately thirty-nine - and yet already advanced in his career, so qualified, long term relationship - had unfortunately not proved to be very reassuring.

Bullet through the liver, lodging itself in his brother's inferior vena cava, as the man had admitted after rather adamant insistence upon Mycroft's side, causing indeed massive internal bleeding, leading to hypovolaemic shock, and, as the man had even more reluctantly added, cardiac arrest for estimatedly fifty minutes until the doctors had intended to give up on Sherlock, about to pronounce him dead - the man had not mentioned that, but there hadn't been any need to, because Mycroft did have eyes, and his highly unusual inattentiveness, caused solely by his inability to detach himself from his love for his little brother, did _not _cause him to miss the _most obvious _signs -, when, close to miraculously, joining a minority of exactly thirty-eight reported cases since the 1980s, Sherlock's heart had started functioning again, almost reliably, return of spontaneous circulation, and the doctors had been able to complete surgery, with his brother still alive.

Naturally, Mycroft was used to far more gruesome stories and reports from some of his agents, of decapitation, mutilation, explosions, as well as to his brother in a condition possibly life-threatening.

Never before, however, and this thought was unsettling enough to justify the inhalation of another lungful of cigarette smoke, had it come so close. Losing his brother, as he had learnt an entire lifetime ago, would… was an occurrence that was _not _allowed to happen.

Which meant in conclusion that Mycroft was not allowed to make any further mistakes concerning his brother's safety and had to focus his concentration, regardless of the fact that it definitely wasn't at its best - sentiment, again -, entirely on finding who was responsible for his brother being in critical condition in a hospital, with a gunshot wound in his chest, and on preventing anyone else from attempting to harm his brother in the future.

His litte brother's heart, so susceptible to human emotion, stopping, not beating, its surrender depriving his body and his brain of the most imperative organ needed to stay alive.

His brother's heart, his _little _brother's heart, not beating.

Concentrate.

Not beating not only for a few seconds, or minutes, or losing its healthy rhythm, but… stopping.

"My! Come and play…," a so familiar voice demanded in his head.

His little brother…

Concentrate!

Mycroft took a deep breath, let the cigarette smoke infest his cells and body, and focussed. And exhaled.

"Magnussen claims that he didn't see him or her," Andrea informed him, answering his earlier question. Distraction, sentiment, definitely. "No fingerprints, no strands of hair, no visible traces. Left-handed, going by the shape of your brother's wound. Nothing else so far, I'm afraid, sir."

Concentration. Concentration.

In his daily life, Mycroft was accustomed to working with minimal data and exploiting what little knowledge he had, but then, the stakes were rarely as high as in this very moment. His brother, his little brother, might still die, and this prospect was inacceptable.

"Continue to exclude the police from any investigations," Mycroft told her curtly, twirling his cigarette between his fingers. "Keep me informed."

"Yes, sir," she replied almost immediately and then added, perfectly acquainted with Mycroft's way of handling certain situations: "Sir? Is it severe enough that you need me to call your parents?"

Andrea had been working for him for exactly eleven years by now, a bright, beautiful young woman - beauty did have its advantages, if only to deceive voluptuous men driven by hormones into trusting her and confiding in her -, and in these eleven years, Mycroft had been forced to have her call his parents only once, after this one faithful night in which Sherlock had almost given his life away in a gamble with a very potent cocktail of drugs. That night, however, his brother's heart had not stopped for the better part of an hour.

"No," he decided and took another drag from his cigarette. His last one, he determined - nicotine poisoning did, in contrast to his brother, not give him stimulation, but a rather persistent headache which he could not afford to have right now.

Andrea hesitated, obviously contemplating whether to say something consoling, something utterly patronising and pointless. "Our best people are working on it," was what she did say, and Mycroft finally dropped his cigarette. He had never, once more in contrast to Sherlock, been prone to requiring external stimulants in order to function properly.

"Very well," he muttered and ended the call, extinguishing the cigarette with the tip of his shoe.

There definitely was work to do for him, going through the bits of information Andrea was surely about to send to his mobile phone, squeezing them dry, extracting details and not theorising _without _data, but he could as well do that here, in the hospital cafeteria, closed at half past three in the night.

His umbrella once more tightly in his grip, he started walking back towards the hospital, perfectly composed. The pack of cigarettes, however, neatly stuffed into the pocket of his coat, suddenly regained at lot of its appeal as soon as he remembered that there remained a chance, a chance far too high for Mycroft's liking, that Sherlock, his brilliant little brother, would never accomplish a full neurological recovery. And this, he had to admit, was a fear he had never before been confronted with.

-I-

By the time the night had ended and dawn was breaking, people swarming through the hitherto empty cafeteria, Mycroft was aware of the whole extent of his little brother's stupidity that had resulted in him being in this very hospital: of the 'girlfriend', the proposal - which would, no doubt, have made Mummy very happy, particularly the prospect of grandchildren -, the criminal intent of stealing documents behind the break-in. Andrea had informed him minutely who had been in the building, on the same floor, who had an alibi, who didn't. Magnussen and Sherlock in one room, Sherlock's 'girlfriend', John and a security guard one floor below, both of Magnussen's personnel knocked out and John Watson tending to them.

The urge to get up, rush to Sherlock's room and either try and shake some sense into his foolish brother, no doubt still barely conscious, if at all, or cradle him close, fortunately not expected to be strong or coherent enough to resist, and shield him from the world he sometimes didn't seem ready for, had grown almost overwhelming during one point in the night, and this irrational and pointless action had only been avoided with pacing through the cafeteria for an unkown amount of time, all his focus on the nearly impossible task to store away memories of his little brother and concentrate on his _task._

Concentration.

The shooter had to be an intruder into the building, not one of these five people, not Sherlock, not John, not Magnussen's personnel, not Magnussen himself - no gun anywhere in the office, Magnussen's flat or on the ground next to the building -, a professional, a contract killer, assigned to eliminate Magnussen. Someone who had then abandoned the original mission in favour of injuring Sherlock - seriously, but not grievously enough to warrant his _certain _death, although definitely prepared to take the risk of ending his brother's life -, had knocked out Magnussen, and had disappeared, without ever accomplishing the task.

Either a very imbecilic contract killer, or someone who had been distracted by something - emotion, sentiment, in all likelihood, the most common force that drove and diverted ordinary people. Sentiment towards Sherlock?

It could have been indecisiveness, of course, being surprised at the appearance of a witness while one was about to commit murder. Balance of probability, however, was that a professional killer would have shot Sherlock - _killed _Sherlock -, and then proceeded to get rid of the original target, of Magnussen, without so much as remorse. Had everything gone to plan, and had the killer acted as his profession demanded, then Mycroft would have received the news he had been dreading for almost his entire life, since January 6th, 1977 - then his brother would be dead.

Theorising without data, again, dwelling on never existing what-ifs. Sentiment.

It was time, Mycroft decided after a glance at his pocket watch and a frown directed at a woman - middle age, here for her husband, soon to be widow - who had possessed the boldness to take the chair opposite of him, to reassure himself once more that this scenario had remained a mere possibility during the night and had not, horrifyingly, turned into reality.

-I-

* * *

_Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think._


	2. Sentiment's Shortcomings

_Thank you so much for your interest, reviews, follows, favourite! I am beyond grateful for that!_

_There will be three parts in total which means, after you have read this one here, there's going to be one more._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

**The Inescapable Mistake of Caring**

2

Sentiment's Shortcomings

-I-

Mycroft's heart, thankfully concealed inside of his chest and not able to penetrate the hospital silence with its too loud thudding, betrayed his otherwise perfectly hidden anxiety as he approached his brother's hospital room. More fuel was added to the flames of his ever present fear for his brother's life when he noticed John Watson - shoulders tense, face pressed to the glass wall with the half-closed blinds, left hand clenched into a fist to suppress his still occurring tremor, still in his jacket, completely focussed on the interior of the room or, more precisely, on its inhabitant - standing _outside _of Sherlock's room, staring inside.

John spun around before Mycroft had had the chance to say something. The frankly ridiculous grin on his face, however, immediately served to scatter the apprehension that his brother's condition might have worsened.

"You know?" John asked in a breathless voice.

Mycroft stopped a few metres away from John and nodded, his umbrella securely in his grip.

John briefly shook his head, ran his right hand over his face and yet didn't manage to wipe the smile away. "He's woken up," he set out to explain his utter exhilaration, however incoherently. "He's woken up, and he recognised me, and… Oh God, Mycroft, he's pulled through and he's going to be fine, it's…"

Overly optimistic, Mycroft's rational half finished the sentence in his head, and an assumption fully fuelled by outraging relief and elation. And, since John was talking about his little brother whose heart had stopped for a too long amount of time and who yet wasn't dead, probably, and mercifully, accurate.

The pressure on Mycroft's chest eased a tiny bit, but the image of his baby brother with a malicious bullet hole in his chest did not want to disappear, irrationally as well as expectedly, because Sherlock never did as Mycroft wanted him to. It embodied, as Mycroft had to admit very unwillingly, his deepest fear, the fear he tried to keep hidden and failed to; it illustrated what would happen if Mycroft failed his brother _again_, failed to protect his younger sibling, from any harm as well as from his own self-destructing and reckless nature.

"Yes," he agreed with John Watson nonetheless.

John giggled for a moment, before turning serious abruptly, his gaze once more fixated at the sight inside of the room. "The one who did this to him," he made, and Mycroft of course didn't fail to notice how his fist clenched again, "the one who shot him. You'll find him, won't you?"

Oh, he would. He definitely would. In person. "Naturally," he replied as casually as possible. His brother's best friend did, quite obviously, not know how close Sherlock had come to truly dying this time, was, rudinentarily, aware of complications during surgery, maybe even of a short phase of asystole. It would remain that way, Mycroft decided.

John nodded curtly, like a true soldier, but didn't tear his eyes away from whatever sight his brother presented.

His brother, his curly-headed, energetic, emotional baby brother.

"He is sleeping, I take it?" Mycroft wanted to know and raised one eyebrow. Sleeping, or unconscious.

This time, John's nod was almost hectic. Sleeping indeed, and nonetheless the worry had not dissipated yet for John Watson. For once, Mycroft found, he could not blame him. "Yes," he answered. "He's on a cocktail of medication, and he's lost so much blood, he… he needs rest."

To be expected, and yet… not reassuring.

"A doctor was with him a few minutes ago, after he'd woken," John went on, suddenly seeming eager to get rid of everything, to tell someone. "He knew where he was, and what had happened, and there's quite a good chance that he will recover, now that he's stable, and…" The downright silly grin re-appeared on John's face. "God, I really thought that this time…," he added, breathless, and Mycroft could only agree. "Yes," he made.

And then, suddenly, Mycroft Holmes, one of the most powerful men in the country, composed and cold and supposedly not capable of any kind of emotion, did not know how to go on. "Would my… presence disturb him?" he settled on, barely refraining from clearing his throat. If he were awake, certainly, but in his current state… Who knew.

"Don't think so," John croaked and straightened without being consciously aware of what he was doing.

Mycroft gave a short nod, taking a deep breath at the same time. "If you would excuse me for a moment."

Entering his little brother's hospital room would never be something he could - or wanted to - get used to.

-I-

His brother was indeed unconscious, when Mycroft sat down, quietly, on the chair next to the bed in the dim and warm room, the chair John Watson had occupied during the night. Sleeping, he reminded himself, was sleeping. Merely sleeping after an ordeal of being shot, massive internal bleeding, cardiac arrest, almost one hour of cardiopulmonary resuscitation, four hours of emergency surgery during which his heart had been, even after having started beating again, more than once close to faltering.

Merely sleeping.

It remained illogical, and unreasonable, and completely pointless, but even now, with factual and audible proof that his brother was still amongst the living directly in front of him, everything Mycroft could see while he kept staring at the pale figure of his little brother was a young boy, far too curious and far too emotional for his own good, his baby brother. After a curt look and the realisation that John had disappeared from the glass wall, obviously in order to give Mycroft some privacy, he for once failed to restrain himself from bending towards his brother, wiping a stray curl away from his forehead - a gesture for which young Sherlock would have beamed at him and his Sherlock, the adult, would have flinched away from and scowled at.

The memory of Sherlock, so young and so dependent, nodding off in Mycroft's bed, his hand hanging over the edge of it, burrowed in Redbeard's fur, attacked him unbidden.

Stable, as John Watson had wheezed so breathlessly, his relief, utter relief, plainly palpable in his face and his posture, as well as his still existent worry and fear for Sherlock's life.

But then, John Watson did not know half as much as Mycroft did. One did not simply get shot, die before surgery could even begin properly, come back to life, inexplicably, and be stable. Not even Sherlock Holmes, however infuriating and petulant he might be otherwise.

And yet Sherlock was still here, had woken, had been… close to lucid - diminishing the likelihood of severe neurological impairment -, weak and in pain, but… alive.

Alive.

It didn't take Mycroft Holmes to deduce or a doctor to assess how very close it had been this time. Location of the tape on his brother's torso suggesting location of the bullet wound, tissue damage, associated liver injury, inferior vena cava, massive blood loss.

Even now, hours after surgery, blood, foreign blood, was sluggishly making its way beneath the skin of Sherlock's right arm, replacing the amount he had lost, providing him with the strength he could not possibly lack right now.

"Brother dear," Mycroft caught himself mumbling, scrutinising the colourless face in front of him for a few moments.

Brother dear. Brother mine.

Sherlock's eyelids, Mycroft noticed all of a sudden, were fluttering ever so softly, and a small noise seemed to build in the back of his throat. Not quite as asleep, as insentient, as John Watson had assumed.

Mycroft watched with something akin to fascination and a feeling of increasing insecurity how his little brother's fingers started twitching faintly, as if in need for John Watson's hand in his.

"I'm not John, brother dear," he muttered, yet unable to tear his gaze away from his brother's feeble stirring.

Sherlock, although far from coherent or even conscious, in the claws of heavy medication - necessary morphine, to Mycroft's dismay -, and terribly pale, did not still.

To his own surprise, giving in to his earliest instincts of calming Sherlock whenever his little brother had been upset, Mycroft's hand moved towards his brother's.

Sherlock gave another quiet sigh, barely perceptible, and his fingers curled, however loosely, around Mycroft's.

The hand in Mycroft's was cold, far too cold, matching the paleness of his brother's skin, and, intuitionally, Mycroft tightened his grip, as if to hold on to his brother, to remind him to never let go.

Sherlock would, Mycroft told himself, not remember any of that later anyway.

Not even twenty-four hours ago, Mycroft had almost had his arm broken by his impudent little brother, back then in the claws of his drug of choice. And whereas this had been a moment to add to his list of situations he was not very fond of, he would very gladly trade this silent, unmoving, barely breathing version of his brother, in need of medication to keep functioning, close monitoring and supplemental oxygen to ensure adaequate saturation levels, against the vigilante one from the day before.

"Brother dear," he all but whispered, his eyes fixated on the tape on his brother's exposed chest telling, very plainly, that Sherlock of all people _knew _who had shot him, given that he remembered, "you will have some explaining to do. You will."

This time, Sherlock did not protest, did not so much as twitch, or whimper, as Mycroft very gently, more gently than he had done anything else in a long time, loosened Sherlock's limp fingers around his hand and carefully rested his brother's hand back on the mattress.

The knowledge that his brother was in good hands, receiving the very best care, in the continuous company of John Watson, did not make leaving him behind and resisting the urge to scoop him up in his arms and protect him from the world as he had done when Sherlock had been tiny and helpless any easier.

-I-

John Watson, still faithfully waiting outside, was, however, not alone, but rather in the company of his wife, each of them armed with a cup of - certainly awful - coffee in their hands. His wife who, curiously, although she had never had the pleasure with Mycroft before, seemed, as Mycroft noted immediately, reluctant to meet his gaze.

"So, er," John began, his stance stiff, rigid. Ever the soldier. "Did he…"

"Ignore me, as he always does," Mycroft finished the sentence, smiling thinly at John. "I am sure he is longing for your presence, not mine."

John let out a wheezing huff and removed his arm from his wife's shoulders, the plastic cup of coffee trembling slightly in his grip. Telling, so very telling. For a moment, Mycroft wondered if his worries were as plainly visible as John's. "I'm sorry," he told her. "It's…"

Mycroft continued to study her as she pressed a kiss to her newly-wed husband's cheek and nodded. "Only one visitor, isn't it?"

John gave a curt nod, too, and Mycroft twisted the tip of his umbrella around. Marital bliss. Or wasn't it?

"It's okay," Mary Watson said. "He needs you, John, go in there."

And yet, John hesitated, as Mycroft observed with interest. "He'd like to see you, too, I think," he croaked, quite blatantly not entirely convinced. Sentiment, definitely. "I mean, it was your name he said after he'd woken, not mine."

A perfectly good-natured comment, tinged by worry about Sherlock, and yet it evoked a reaction in Mary Watson not even Mycroft could have predicted. She blinked rapidly, and her encouraging smile flickered for the briefest of moments, shortly enough for John, most likely smitten with happiness about his still fresh marriage as well as light-headed with relief that Sherlock had survived the night, to miss. Not fleetingly enough for Mycroft, of course.

"Oh, no," she replied seconds after she had regained her composure. "I'll wait in the cafeteria, alright? You go in there and watch out for him."

John almost dropped his cup in his haste to get back to Sherlock. "Thank you," he wheezed and already made for the door to Sherlock's room.

Interesting.

"John," Mycroft held him back, intending to measure his words carefully. John's head jerked around. "I count on you regarding my brother's safety."

John nodded, his jaw set. "Right," he muttered, his gaze once more striding, subconsciously, towards the door.

Very well. Trustworthy, as always, unbelievably loyal to Sherlock.

"Do call me if anything changes," he reminded John finally, before giving a curt nod and turning his back towards John Watson, his wife and his brother's room.

He had work to do.

-I-

John Watson's number did not appear on the screen of his mobile, not during the day, not in the night that was to follow.

His PA assured him that the doctor had not left the hospital so far, in contrast to his wife, having headed home in the late evening. So far, so good.

He had work to do, yes, and found, not for the first time, that it was far more difficult than usually to focus on anything while images kept appearing in his mind, unwanted, of Sherlock, various ages, of Sherlock, recently.

The night was productive, however, productive enough.

Location of the bullet wound. Chest, not back. Chest.

Sherlock's first word upon waking, according to John Watson.

The fact that Magnussen had escaped unharmed, despite being the more likely and more predictable target, whereas Sherlock had almost died on an operating table in a hospital because of an indecisive shot fired at him.

A contract killer impaired by sentiment. A shot to the liver, unfortunately grazing his brother's inferior vena cava.

Mary Watson's unusual facial expression upon her husband's mention of Sherlock's first word. Bags beneath her eyes - sleepless night.

Mary Watson.

Mary Elizabeth Watson.

A night of research was everything he needed to be sure of the final extent of his brother's stupidity, of the one thing Sherlock had missed - as had Mycroft, had failed to have acquaintances of Sherlock's cross-checked more thoroughly, had failed in his foremost aim - and that had almost cost him his life. Still might, a part of Mycroft, unwanted, reminded him.

"Security still in place?" he demanded from Andrea when she delivered more files to his office.

The knowledge that everything was still in order was only mildly comforting, just as the cold and unforgiving fury at Mary Watson was about to lure Mycroft into taking rushed actions. Mary Watson, that much he was sure of, did not present a danger to Sherlock at the moment - her behaviour at the hospital, towards John, the shadows in her face telling stories of a sleepless night spent with pondering her deed and possible consequences, for once, and, because Mycroft would not necessarily trust his powers of deduction in this matter, John Watson's unwavering presence at Sherlock's side. No inclination to leave until Sherlock was out of any kind of danger, and absolutely taking no risks about Sherlock's safety - Mycroft's well-placed words at the hospital had surely done enough.

Bottling his icily blazing fury into a strong box inside of his mind and nuturing it enough to keep him alert, Mycroft pondered his next steps, forced himself to rely, once more, on logic and reason, instead of giving in to the thoughtless urge to have Mary Elizabeth Watson removed immediately, without thinking through every possibility, every single consequence such a rash, irrational course of action of his might evoke.

Wrath, cold, controlled wrath, Mycroft Holmes mused not for the first time in his life, was far better suited to propel deduction and decision than heedless fear, a useless, futile sentiment inhibiting the very brain and one's ability to think logically, and yet he could not fully rely on his composure, his detachment, with the worry for his brother's life still disconcertingly present in the midst of his mind.

So was it then that he found himself on the way to the hospital again the very next morning, tapping his fingers against the backrest of his driver's seat.

He forced himself to stop immediately as soon as he noticed.

-I-

John Watson was, predictably, slumped over in a chair in Sherlock's room, snoring quietly.

Mycroft had already placed himself at the foot of Sherlock's bed, insentient, before the doctor jerked, violently so, woke with a curse on his lips.

"Jesus, Mycroft," he muttered, rubbing one of his hands over his face. The other one, Mycroft perceived very clearly, was resting on the mattress, next to Sherlock's.

Bags beneath John Watson's eyes - sleepless night.

Same clothes - had not been home. Confirmed by Mycroft's sources.

Stiff neck - had fallen asleep in this chair, exhausted.

Narrowing his eyes - headache.

Eyes immediately searching for Sherlock's face, taking in the readings on the monitor - still worried, anxiety _very _badly disguised.

For a moment, Mycroft's chest tightened considerably, inexplicably, upon the thought of his brother's heart, now beating steadily as displayed by the quiet beeps filling the room, stopping, upon the thought of several broken ribs due to brutal and at first inefficient cardiopulmonary resuscitation. It was, without any reasonable explanation, far more difficult to remain focussed here, his brother's frailty displayed so very clearly, a close call, than it had been in the night, in his office.

"Has he been awake?" he asked.

The shadow that seemed to flicker over John's face for a moment told Mycroft more than he had wanted to know.

"On and off," John replied, pinching the bridge of his nose. Oh yes, loving Sherlock had always been demanding. "He's drugged up to the eyeballs with pain medication, and he's too weak to put up a fight. When he wakes, he's barely lucid and goes back to sleep within a few minutes."

To be expected, considering the severity of his brother's injuries, and yet unsettling. But then, Mycroft had never quite succeeded in expelling the ever present fear, surfacing so very easily, for his brother's life from his mind.

"I would like to talk to my brother," Mycroft announced, scrutinising the handle of his umbrella, "once he comes to. Will that be a problem?"

John gave a sigh and stared at Sherlock's still face. "I don't know how much sense you'll get out of him," he said. "He's pretty much out of it even if he's awake."

Mycroft only gave a curt nod and remained where he was.

-I-

It took Sherlock more than one hour to stir feebly, frowning in what was most likely discomfort, all but whimpering.

Mycroft's gaze immediately started searching for John, searching for advice what to do, how to handle his brother's obvious pain, whereas John, in his capacity as doctor, soldiers - naturally, to remain in a state closer to composed than panicked -, best friend, was fully concentrated on Sherlock immediately and gripped his right hand in a firm grasp.

"You're in hospital, remember?" he told Sherlock, in a soothing, annoying tone, a tone that made Mycroft want to recoil and spit venom. Especially, as he registered uncomfortably, since it was directed at his brother, his annoying brother who was supposed to give a sniding remark and insult Mycroft's weight gain, not lie there, frail and insubstantial, in need of soothing and comfort and someone holding his hand.

"John?" Sherlock croaked, and the sound, so feeble, slurred, stirred memories in Mycroft he had long believed to be stored away.

"Yeah, it's me," John replied, his tense smile audible in his voice. "It's okay. Look who's here. Your brother. I bet you can't wait to hurl insults at him, can you?"

For once, Mycroft assumed, he would even welcome that.

"Sh… g'home," Sherlock muttered, clearly directed at John.

Whether he should or should not was debatable, Mycroft found, but, in contrast to his little brother, was perfectly aware of the fact that John _would _not. "Indeed you should, John," he nonetheless agreed with Sherlock. "I am sure your wife is already missing you dearly."

"No," John croaked, not tearing away his gaze from Sherlock's closed eyes.

"'m fine," his little brother mumbled. "G'home."

"Besides," Mycroft added, "I would like to have a word with my brother. If you wouldn't mind."

Sherlock coughed almost softly. "…would," he slurred.

Indeed John would mind, Mycroft assumed, and nonetheless the doctor nodded, giving Sherlock's hand a final squeeze. "I'll be right back," he added, but this time, Sherlock didn't react.

He hesitated again before opening the door and turned back to Mycroft. "Just don't…"

Upset him? Overexert him? Annoy him? "I will not," Mycroft promised.

John gave a curt nod, his gaze wandering back to Sherlock once more, before exiting the room.

-I-

Mycroft only took up residence in the now vacant chair after he had decreased the amount of morphine finding its way into Sherlock's bloodstream - not dramatically, of course not, and not too eagerly, or carelessly enough to prove a threat for his brother's condition, but enough to warrant a few more minutes of consciousness.

"Sherlock?" he finally asked and bent down towards his brother.

The frown kept lingering on Sherlock's pallid features.

"What d'you want, My… croft," he whispered, forcing his no doubt heavy eyes open.

"I worry about you," Mycroft replied, doing everything to keep his voice as smooth as always, not betraying the turmoil in his brain, caused by his heart and his brother's worrisome condition. Additionally, he did not miss the way Sherlock's eyelids flutter shut again, weakly, exhaustedly.

"Yeah," he breathed, managing a shaky exhale.

Stubborn as always. And yet…

"Fine," Mycroft made, and decided not to waste any more time. "I want to know what exactly is supposed to keep me from taking care of your doctor's little wife in this very moment."

Sherlock's eyes, so tired moments before, shot open, and this was all of a confirmation Mycroft had ever needed. Mary Watson, former intelligence agent, blackmailed by Magnussen, intending to shoot him and instead encountering Sherlock, her husband's best friend - not prepared to kill, therefore wounding him almost fatally.

"D'd'you tell… John," Sherlock wanted to know.

"Should I have done so?" Mycroft countered. "I was under the impression that, apart from muttering her name in his presence, you weren't very keen on sharing your knowledge."

Instead of an answer, Sherlock only moaned again, and the sound, as quiet as it might have been, cut directly through Mycroft. Time to increase the morphine dosage again, he realised, and the sudden comprehension left him with an equally sudden uneasiness. He would not be allowed to make the mistake of underestimating the severity of his brother's condition again - too frail, too weak to fare well with a minimally reduced dose of morphine for more than a few minutes.

"Brother mine," Mycroft muttered, reaching for the remote that controlled said dosage, determined to ignore the gruesome sight of a needle sticking in the crook of his brother's elbow. "Do you expect me to let the person who very nearly killed you walk away so easily?"

Normally, Sherlock would have scoffed at him, would have snorted at the obvious display of sentiment in Mycroft's statement, would have mocked him for his words. Normally.

"Don' tell John," he whispered, his eyelids drooping once more. "Lemme…"

"You, little brother, are in no condition to form but one coherent sentence," Mycroft remarked darkly, placing the remote out of Sherlock's reach. Always better not to take any risk, Mycroft had learned years ago, to prevent Sherlock from meddling with morphine.

Sherlock produced a sound terrifyingly close to a whimper that Mycroft would prefer to hear never again.

"Sherlock," he addressed his brother, forced him to look at him. "Give me _one _reason, just one, why I should not dispose of her right now."

"J'n… loves… her," Sherlock breathed eventually, his head slowly lolling to one side.

"And why exactly…," Mycroft began, only to be cut off by his brother's frail voice: "Don'… please, Mycr…"

He was asleep, or unconscious, Mycroft made sure, nothing worse, before he could finish his sentence.

Sentiment, naturally. His brother's love for, devotion to John Watson, his wish to secure John Watson's happiness.

Sentiment, illogical, rash, deceiving, the cause for both his brother's failure to recognise Mary Watson for what she was and for his brother's being here, not merely a cold corpse in a morgue on a slab, for Mary Watson's failure to complete her job professionally.

Sentiment.

Mycroft caught himself staring at Sherlock, unable to tear away his gaze from his little brother's pallid face.

Sentiment. Sentiment and its unhealthy habit to overrule the dominance of the brain, to postpone necessary, however repulsive actions, such as informing John Watson about his wife's secret previous life, about her recent slip that had almost led to Sherlock's death.

Her behaviour and actions were void of any inclination that she posed any further threat to his little brother, Mycroft tried to reason and was, at the same time, perfectly aware of the fact that the attempt of caluclation, of analysis, was nothing but a decoy to cover the knowledge that his decision, a decision concluded by his heart and for once not by his brain, had been set in stone the moment his brother had breathed 'please'.

"Very well, Sherlock," he murmured in a low voice, hands resting on his thighs. He would, at least for a limited amount of time and of course with the help of continued surveillance on his brother's hospital room, repress the cold fury that did not bode well for Mary Watson, for his brother's sake, and allow his love for his brother - and in that his brother's love for John Watson - to prevail over any rational decision.

"Very well," he repeated. Sentiment, indeed. Although illogical, undeniably powerful. "But do believe me, I will not watch her kill you."

Sherlock, as Mycroft could almost deceive himself into believing, ignored him.

He waited long enough for John - who had not gone home, naturally - to return before he bid his farewell to John, studying him almost suspiciously, and to his unconscious brother.

He would not yet go after the woman he knew as Mary Watson, that much had been decided as soon as Sherlock had begged him not to. It might, however, and Mycroft was painfully aware of that as he phoned his chauffeur and intended to upgrade surveillance on John Watson's wife as well, a measure of reasonabl precaution, turn out to be a decision he would come to regret, another sample to add to his list of mistakes whenever Sherlock and sentiment were concerned.

-I-

* * *

_Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you thought._


	3. Limits Reached

_This is now the final part of this story. Thank you so much for your interest and your reviews!_

_I hope you enjoy that part as well._

* * *

**The Inescapable Mistake of Caring**

3

Limits Reached

-I-

In retrospect, Myroft Holmes had to admit to himself, he should have known that his brother would not stay still, would do something, as he always did, incredibly stupid, and incredibly foolish. He had counted on the influence of the morphine doing much to keep Sherlock dazed, calm and peaceful as well as on his brother's continued weakness now, five days after the shooting, but had, once more, made the grave mistake to underestimate John Watson. Or rather, John Watson's ability to evoke such surprisingly and disconcerningly deep devotion -love, quite possibly - in his brother, a devotion which had been, apparently, enough for Sherlock to overcome both morphine and exhaustion and disappear from hospital, no doubt with the help of one or multiple members of his homeless network.

Mummy would be very cross with his little brother - and of course with him, for not protecting Sherlock - if she were to know. Which she, thankfully to Mycroft's wise precaution not to inform their parents, wasn't.

"Five known boltholes," he told Detective Inspector Lestrade who was, together with John Watson, attempting to comb London for his brother and trying to achieve the impossible - find Sherlock Holmes in his beloved city, in this cesspool of hiding places and dark alleys where Sherlock had always managed to blend in completely, for once -, the impossible which not even Mycroft had succeeded in during those years when Sherlock's only form of company had been his chemical compound of choice.

If Sherlock did not want to be found, of that Mycroft was perfectly - and painfully - aware, then there was little even he could do. Sherlock Holmes was, to his own misfortune, clever enough to avoid security cameras he knew of.

While he continued briefing the Detective Inspector who had been sent here by John, his own employees in the meantime surveying security cameras and the agent Mycroft had had assigned to the hospital being disciplined for his surely to remain single mistake, Mycroft structured what he knew, and soon more than one fact became obvious to him.

Whatever his brother was doing, he was doing it for John Watson.

Mary Watson, the doctor's wife, was not involved in Sherlock's disappearance.

His brother did have a plan, had to have a plan, and it would surely concern John Watson and his wife.

And whereas he trusted Sherlock, trusted him as much as he would ever trust another human being, he did not trust his brother with his life. Because Sherlock had proven, more than once, that he was willing, foolishly willing, to risk everything for John Watson - and would, undoubtly, do it again.

Time was of essence, then.

-I-

How very telling it was in the end that not John Watson was the one to call him first, but his personal assistant, just as she had done before with John being too busy pacing in a hospital corridor and worrying, who informed him that Sherlock had been found, somehow, had returned to the assembly of furniture and chemicals he called flat and had then, not even twenty minutes later, been loaded into an ambulance which had proceeded to speed away.

The triumph that he had been right once again did not come.

His little brother was in danger, _once again_, and this time, it was his brother's fault, his fault completely.

"Oh Sherlock," was the only exclamation he could think of as he all but dropped his phone, relenting to burying his face in his hands.

Oh Sherlock.

-I-

His personal assistant kept him updated via another agent Myroft had had stationed at the hospital, perfectly reliably as she always did.

Sherlock was in surgery, she informed him, not likely to be out for hours. John Watson was still there, waiting for surgery to be over.

Internal bleeding, Mycroft concluded swiftly as soon as he had ended the call. Moving and walking around, everything for John Watson, ripping out sutures and tearing open his brother's fragile, newly mended inferior vena cava, sending him onto a dangerous cycle of altruism bordering on self-destruction and the repeated possibility of cardiovascular collapse. Death was, he calculated for the second time within one week and at the same time wondered how it could have happened that two grievous, possibly life-threatening mistakes of his had occurred within the same range of days, a terrifying and yet probable option.

This time, he forced his body and his mind to obey his commands as he attempted to piece together what his brother had done: Had escaped from the hospital, aided by at least one member of the homeless network, prepared, most likely, to confront both John Watson and his murderous wife about the truth.

Brother dear, he could barely refrain from shouting out loud, for all your massive intellect… For all his massive intellect, Sherlock remained scaringly stupid and entirely too susceptible to be taken over by sentiment for his own good.

He had, no doubt, contacted John Watson, had reunited with him, had presented to him the truth about his lying wife, the former intelligence agent who had happened to not kill Sherlock because of her emotional bond with John and therefore with Mycroft's own brother, and had then, in the company of Doctor and Mrs Watson returned to Baker Street, to have, quite possibly, an enormous domestic argument about lies, marriage and murder.

And all that while, that much was perfectly obvious, bleeding out internally and being, with certainty, aware of his slow and impending death approaching - and ignoring it against better knowledge, for John Watson, his brother's greatest weakness.

While he was pouring himself a glass of the best brandy in the late evening in his secret office, Mycroft Holmes had, for only the third time in his life, to admit defeat, had to agnise that he had, completely and utterly, failed.

If his proneness to trust his brother, to not go against Mary Elizabeth Watson, no matter how irrational the notion had been, and his failure resulted in his baby brother's death, for real this time, Mycroft would not know, for once, what to do.

-I-

It was in the middle of the night when he arrived at the hospital, took a quick look a John Watson, the crumpled form that was John Watson, slumped, defeated, terrified, for once not the steady soldier whose part he played so well, made sure that there were no news yet, that Sherlock was still in surgery, likely for a few more hours, and stepped outside again, smoking his third cigarette that day. That night.

When he had worked his way through half of his package, he finally forced himself to stop - he was, in contrast to his brother, not used to inhaling such amounts of cigarettes and he, furthermore unlike his brother, did not nurse the tendency to drown his worries in substance abuse.

He did not feel the need, however, to go back inside and sit there, united in gloomy worry with John Watson whose unfathomable wife was the cause for all this, alongside with his own brother's stubbornness. He withdrew to the closed, empty cafeteria instead, sitting, stiffly, on a cheap chair and looking, quite likely, like just another frightened family member to the average viewer's eyes. Which he was, maybe, because it was his little brother who was in danger, and because his supply of pretending to remain aloof and cold while confronted with the prospect of losing his little sibling had simply… run out by now, with the second time within one week. Trying to protect Sherlock had always been the task Mycroft did not allow himself to fail, but had failed far too often.

Because no matter what he did, or how many years he had lived, a particular curly-haired toddler had once, many years ago, taken up residence in Mycroft's heart, and had never let go again.

And the _repeated _thought of losing his brother, his little brother, was now enough to reduce Mycroft Holmes to a merely average man.

-I-

When he approached John Watson later, conceding, his brother's friend looked up briefly, his face composed as always and yet cracking, with blood-shot eyes, and a mere first glance was enough to confirm what Sherlock had been up to: John knew, as the distinct defeat visible in his features and the telling absence of his wife suggested.

"He's in surgery," John croaked instead of a greeting, and Mycroft, his umbrella leaning against the wall, hands loosely, purposefully loosely, resting on his thighs, back perched uncomfortably in the obnoxious chair, didn't bother to inform John that he already knew.

"Oh God," John groaned. "It's my fault, it's completely my fault. He was bleeding internally and I didn't notice…"

There were things Mycroft could have said, in this moment, many things. Yes, for example, yes, it was John's fault. She was his wife. Or, of course, he could lie, for John Watson's sake, for Sherlock's, if - if - he survived this. No, it wasn't. Nobody's fault. Fine.

In the end, Mycroft Holmes, who had always prided himself for his eloquence, for his aloofness, said nothing at all and wondered how exactly his brother was intending - if he survived - to untangle this mess, a mess Mycroft had, in his blindness, his blind trust in his brother and the confidence in his own ability to control what was happened without arresting Mary Elizabeth Watson, contributed to.

-I-

Not even thirty minutes later, exactly three hours and forty-one minutes after Mycroft's PA had phoned him, had informed him, John Watson took up pacing again. Against his original impulse, Mycroft did not snap at him, and did not demand him to sit down and stay still, not this time, when he felt as if he was about to start tapping his own foot nervously, too, a display of his own utter anxiety.

"You…," John began while doing his third lap in the narrow corridor, his left trembling hand, even more telling in terms of betraying his momentary constitution, clenched into a fist and pressed against the side of his leg, "you knew, didn't you? That's why you wanted to talk to Sherlock on your own."

Mycroft let out a deep breath and rested the back of his head against the wall. Waiting. Waiting for news, waiting for Sherlock, waiting in a cheap, primitive, malodorous, impersonal, distasteful hospital corridor, without anything to distract himself. Pitiful and disgraceful on its own, the fact that he found himself in a situation, in a location for ordinary people, ordinary people who cared and loved and suffered too much and too deeply, all the time. If it hadn't been for his brother, if his brother had never existed, Mycroft would be way above all that, would be, truly, invincible, indestructible, uncaring, cold, rational.

"Yes," he answered finally, and nothing more. Because there was nothing to add.

Did he ever wish for it to be like that?

It was a stupid question, and an unnecessary one, completely pointless. Nothing, nothing at all, would, however irrationally, however implausibly, ever outshine the moments when Sherlock's eyes, large in the little boy's face, had brightened upon seeing his older brother, or the moments when tiny, chubby arms had clutched at his throat and had refused to let go, or the moments when Sherlock, so much older then, so much older not only in years but also in experiences, called him brother and then asked about his diet, just the same way Mycroft always urged his brother to take his cases, or when Sherlock actually smiled, although his so vulnerable gaze was nowadays solely directed at John Watson and no longer at Mycroft.

His brother was the source for what little humanity still remained within Mycroft, and whereas he would, many times in his life, have fared better without any inclination to humanity, there was nothing in the world for which he would have traded his little brother for a boring existence as an only child. His little brother, who was, currently, fighting for his life once more.

A bout of bitter laughter suddenly was released by John, accompanied by punching his closed fist against the white, cool wall, a futile gesture of frustration, a violent outlet for his anger and rage. "My own bloody wife shot my best friend," he growled, shaking his head, like one of those maniacs who had been submitted to torture for a too long amount of time, those Mycroft had to deal with occasionally. "And it's my fault!"

There was no sense whatsoever in this statement, and yet, once more, Mycroft did not comment on John Watson's outbreak. One of them, he realised not for the first time as his own heart kept beating painfully quickly in his chest as if to make up for Sherlock's, possibly about to stop forever, and as his temples started pounding with a herald of an impending headache, would probably lose his sanity before this night was over.

-I-

John Watson had slumped in one of the chairs once more, both of his hands trembling now, his breathing mere shallow, quick gasps by the time a doctor approached them, his pace quick, but not hasty. John lurched to his feet, unsteadily, and Mycroft followed with more dignitiy, as much dignitiy as he could muster while he started studying the man, searching for tell-tale signs to be prepared for the man's message.

Face serious - wrinkles around the eyes, on the forehead, mouth thin-lipped. Arms and hands hanging loosely at his sides - not flapping them as so many surgeons did when nervous or when about to convey bad news to someone. Late forties, married, second wife, but not happily, going… no, not important at the moment.

Shoulders - tense, but more likely from standing in the same spot for hours, bending over Sherlock, the reopened hole in his chest and his shredded vein, and not from failing to save a life. Eyes dark - natural colour deep blue, serious, just as his face, gravity pronounced through wrinkles. Less wrinkles around the mouth - not generally a cheerful person, gloomy facial expression, in conclusion, did not mean anything negative in particular.

Conclusion: His brother had not died. Yet.

"So?" John immediately blurted out, looking as if he was ready to lurch at the surgeon and squeeze an answer out of him - and if it wasn't the one John hoped for, strangle him, too.

Mycroft's jaw had tensed considerably, he noticed by the time the man finally began to speak, and he immediately forced his body to relax. Alive, Sherlock _had _to be alive.

"He lost an unfortunate amount of blood," the man told them, "and he's still in critical condition, but…"

Mycroft did, despite himself, miss the next few words. John, next to him, deflated visibly, his knees shaking underneath him, so badly that, for a moment, Mycroft found himself contemplating already how to inform Sherlock, once he was coherent, stable, that his best friend had collapsed because of… sheer giddiness.

John, to Mycroft's great relief, did not let it get so far, but sagged down on one of the chairs, burying his face in his hands.

"…sedated for a few more days, to give his body time to heal," the surgeon explained further, but Mycroft cut him off with a small gesture, perfectly in control of his body once more. "Very well," he said. "_I_ will hear about that later. If you would allow Doctor Watson now to see my brother?"

It was neither a question nor a matter of discussion, and Mycroft's words, just as he had expected, were obeyed.

-I-

The blue scrubs Mycroft had to wear as he followed John half an hour later were simply disgusting.

Disgusting and, as he had accepted without hesitation, necessary, since Sherlock had not yet been transferred to his room, but remained in recovery - no doubt in John's comforting company - for the time being, until the doctors were content enough with his vitals to move him.

Scrubs always tended to remind him earlier days, of a drug overdose that had almost proved fatal for his brother, without, however, causing his heart to stop, and not only the fabric they were made of repulsed him, but also the fact that the necessity for them always came in unison with Sherlock being in danger.

Sherlock had, all things considered, got off lightly, Mycroft mused as he carefully opened the door to the post-anaesthesia care unit. He was alive, still alive, and had, if he was spared from further complications, only a slightly worse chance to recover than five days ago. It had been another close call, the doctor had informed him, a very narrow escape for Sherlock who had scraped through, somehow, whose heart had been in danger of giving out on him - for good, possibly - more than once. They had managed to stop the bleeding and repair the damage he had inflicted on his inferior vena cava and his liver laceration, but, and the surgeon had been very clear about that, Sherlock's body would not be able to take another episode like this. The second surgery had left him even more debilitated than the first one, and no matter how young and healthy he had been before, there was a limit for everyone, and Sherlock had reached his.

Making out John Watson, slumped in the chair next to the bed only hidden from view by thin curtains, Sherlock's hand tightly in his grip, didn't even take Mycroft ten seconds.

Sherlock was to be allowed to wake up from the anaesthetic, Mycroft had been told, giving the doctors the opportunity to assess his state, and then to be kept under mild sedation for the next few days, enough to keep him sleeping and, most importantly, from wreaking any more havoc on himself.

John acknowledged his presence with a flickering look before returning his attention to Mycroft's little brother.

Seeing Sherlock hours after surgery, once he was stable, breathing by himself and no longer completely colourless due to massive blood loss, had been, Mycroft had to realise within split-seconds, far easier than dealing with having to bear the sight of his little brother now: There did not seem to be much blood left in his body, going by his utter pallidness, however scientifically impossible that notion was, and every single limb was slack in medically induced unconsciousness, unconsciousness relaxing his muscles far enough to require mechanical ventilation. He remembered that, of course, from Sherlock's most dangerous drug overdose, the sight of his little brother being breathed for because he was too weak, unable to do so for himself, and it should not leave him of all people shocked. It did, unfortunately.

John's voice startled him, his flinch betraying his being upset even more than his clenched fists. "Did he code?" he whispered flatly.

"I'm sorry?" Mycroft found himself incapable, unwilling, to tear his gaze away from his little brother's, his baby brother's dead and still face.

"Did he code?" John repeated, gripping Sherlock's hand so firmly that his own knuckles were turning white.

This time, Mycroft vowed to himself, not for the first time since he had talked to the surgeon, this time he would stop Sherlock from trying to kill himself again, and if he personally had to ensure that someone was at his brother's side at all times. Twice he had failed to protect Sherlock now in a row, partly due to Sherlock's annoying ability to take Mycroft by surprise, particularly with his foolhardiness and recklessness, over and over again, and a third time would - apart from the fact that it was not going to happen - simply be too much.

"No," he answered finally.

John gave a curt nod. "God," he mumbled, and for a moment Mycroft feared he would start… weeping, a rather unsettling prospect. "He can't die, he… it's… Mycroft, if he dies, then…"

"He won't," Mycroft heard himself say, although there was no data, no reliable data, to base this assumption on. Because Sherlock absolutely was _not _allowed to die.

"Is she… does she…," John went on, voice barely above a whisper, and his grip tightened enough for Mycroft to expect Sherlock to open his eyes any second, pulled back to consciousness because of John's intense squeeze. Nothing happened. Of course. "Will she try again?" was what John finally croaked.

The thought was, admittedly, a rather stupid one. Sherlock had, after all, not been Mary Elizabeth Watson's primary target, had, in contrast, been an unfortunate witness the would-be-assassin had needed to dispose of, therefore shooting him. Besides that, she would definitely not get a second chance. Indeed, Mycroft decided while studying his little brother, it was time for a long conversation between himself and Mrs Watson.

"No," he answered simply, and it seemed to be enough for John. Of course. John Watson, loyal, soldier, brave - or stupid, depending on one's notion towards romanticising -, trusting. Trusting Sherlock and therefore, however faulty the assumption was, trusting him with protecting Sherlock.

He better hadn't, Mycroft had to admit.

"Well," he announced, straightening. Structuring his thoughts, focussing did prove, even more so than five days ago, to be utterly difficult in the face of Sherlock's latest near-death experience. "I will leave you to it, then."

John Watson did not honour him with a reply this time, all of his attention fixed on Mycroft's brother. Very well. At least this was, finally, close to how it should be.

-I-

It was a relief, a relief brought upon him by hormones and biological reaction, to stand in front of the hospital once more, without scrubs, and inhaling the smoke of another cigarette. Low-tar, of course. Sherlock would scowl at him, the vivid image of his brother's exasperation overlayed by the recent sight of his corpse-like form in a hospital bed.

Calling his parents, he pondered as he puffed out smoke into the still dark night around him, would become inevitable now. Calling them, interrupting their holiday in Oklahoma on which he had sent them, having to answer for his mother's no doubt immense fury, having to cover for Sherlock. It would be absolutely unthinkable to inform them of Sherlock's… escapology act, to tell them that their beloved younger son had risked his own life to confront his best friend about the truth concerning a former intelligence agent.

What a mess. A mess Sherlock would have to entangle, as soon as he was back to his usual annoying self. For once, Mycroft found himself looking forward to hear Sherlock provoking and teasing him.

Informing his parents, however, would have to wait, at least until Mycroft had the confirmation that his brother had woken, had indeed coped with a second emergency surgery and would not be prone to another life-threatening escapade in their parents' presence.

Oh, his mother would indeed be furious. Outright livid, so ordinarily full of worry for his younger brother, directing all of her anger at Mycroft, who would, as he registered with a sigh, of course take all the blame.

His father, in contrast, would be calm - always calm, or trying to be, with his eyes and the way his smile changed, betraying his anxiety, his smile that always reminded Mycroft of his little brother - and warm-hearted and comforting, a steady rock for his mother.

Mycroft had always, always in his life since he had been old enough to appreciate it, felt nothing but respect for his father who was, admittedly, not a genius - a goldfish, Sherlock's voice mocked him in his head -, but yet so very proficient at spotting details when they were important. There had to be, after all, a reason why his mother, a mathematician, an intelligent woman, had given up on her career, almost everything else, to lead a life with this man and have two children with him, of which one continuously manoeuvred himself into unsettlingly dangerous situations.

There was need for another quick counselling with his PA, Mycroft decided, to have her arrange a meeting with the woman known as Mary Watson in which Mycroft was going to very thoroughly remind her of what was inevitably going to occur if she ever, ever again, happened to show but minimal inclination to harm his brother in whatever minuscule way, or, should his brother's condition decline and her shot and the disturbance she had caused lead to any further deterioration or permanent impairment, that he, Mycroft Holmes, could indeed be very unforgiving, and very merciless, and that her continued existence entirely depended on the adovacy and - relative - well-being of Sherlock Holmes and, subsequently, John Watson.

A return to the hospital then, he planned on, to convince himself once more of the fact that his brother was still amongst the living, had woken and allowed the doctors to precisely assess his condition, as well as a short reassurance that John Watson was fine, or at least as fine as anyone close to Sherlock could be in this situation.

Another conversation with the doctors, possibly, to avoid being surprised by any so far unexpected complications, and then, finally, once he was sure, absolutely sure, that Sherlock was stable enough to risk upsetting his parents without simultaneously risking having them witness their younger son's suffering and death, he would have to phone his parents.

Mycroft finished smoking his low-tar cigarette in complete silence, calming his racing thoughts and still quickly beating heart, and wished, for a moment, that he could hear Sherlock mocking his preference of low-tar now.

Even after he had extinguished the material proof of his nervousness and of his inclination towards sentiment, he stayed where he was for a bit longer, as if to summon strength for what was still to come, and finally forced himself to dial his PA's number, to arrange the necessary meeting, and, a duty he had guiltily neglected since his brother's injury, to receive quick updates about the elections in Uganda as well as the progress of his agents in Southern Serbia.

Sherlock, he was sure of that, was in capable hands, and there was, after all, still a country to run.

For a moment, while he was waiting for his PA to pick up and at the same time contemplating another cigarette, he longed for Sherlock to scowl at that, too.

-I-

* * *

_Thank you for reading! I hope you liked it; please leave some feedback if you can spare the time._

_Thank you._


End file.
